fragile: handle with care
by cougarlips
Summary: Who would want to fall for the guy who seemingly raises himself above others? Who considers himself a higher being, perhaps even thinks of himself as something of a martyr? What kind of complex does a guy have to have to not only accept the name but embrace and endorse it? / crossposted on ao3 / originally posted 16 feb 2017


On the surface, they didn't work. Or, rather, they _shouldn't_ have worked.

Before the world ended, Paul loved with every fiber of his being. He loved lingering touches - fingers sliding tenderly across a lower back, tracing veins and connecting the dots of freckles and marks over arms and legs and chests and backs, brushing hair away from lusting eyes, locking together as he pulled away and only letting go when their arms were held taut and he _had_ to let go. He loved kisses in the morning and again in the evening, with as many more in between as he could possibly manage.

("I didn't see you for a whole fifteen minutes - don't you think a hello is in order?" he remembered always teasing with a cheeky grin, standing on his toes and waiting patiently for his partner to roll his eyes but meet him halfway, his grin softening into a smile every single time.)

After the world ended? Well, when he first skipped his silly goodbye kiss, he parted with his partner for all of five minutes before Paul heard his anguished scream and knew it was too late.

He just… stopped, after that. The few times he tried to get close to another man, it ended in tragedy. He let himself relax in someone else's embrace, let himself melt into their kisses, and the next thing he knew they were gone. They left, they died, they couldn't handle the pressure of being in a relationship, they couldn't handle _him_. He, with his constant need for reassurance but his tendency to self-isolate. He, with so much care and so much love in his heart that he had no qualms throwing away his own life if it means saving another.

Soon, he stopped being _Paul_. He stopped being a regular guy trying to survive in the new world. He stopped being the charismatic man people gravitated towards because they knew he held no judgement or malice in his heart. He stopped being Paul and instead became Jesus, a title he, if he were honest, preferred.

Because who would want to fall for the guy who seemingly raises himself above others? Who considers himself a higher being, perhaps even thinks of himself as something of a martyr? What kind of complex does a guy have to have to not only accept the name but embrace and endorse it?

For these reasons he found it hard to so much as entertain the idea of anyone loving him or even himself loving anyone in return. He didn't have the time nor the capacity to devote himself to loving anyone the way he would have five years before.

But he _was_ different. _Life_ was different. How the world operated was different. There was nothing the same about anything from five years before to present day.

Where he used to shower his loved ones with affection, with kisses and hugs, with hidden messages in inconspicuous places, with soft smiles and sneaky grins, he could no longer bring himself to do it anymore. The pain of losing his family and his loved ones hurt too dearly, and if he brought himself to care for another person it was with a tender heart, one that said _I've hurt before, and I don't want to hurt again_.

Where he once would never have gone more than twenty minutes without a gentle caress or a peck on the lips, it took him longer than he would ever admit to so much as work up the courage to hold someone's hand for a split second. The warmth of another left him wanting for more, aching for closeness, for intimacy, but he more often than not placed more stock in the fear in his head than the desires of his heart.

He supposed this was why it seemed so backwards for him to fall in love with Daryl Dixon, who retreated from touch like a hot poker and never seemed to feel the need to constantly be in Jesus's presence.

He supposed they worked because while Daryl did need constant reassurance, he sufficed with a lock of their eyes, a nod, a softening expression, something quick and easy and could communicate effectively across rooms without words.

And in the evenings, after the sun set below the horizon, Jesus couldn't quite bring himself to curl into Daryl's side any more than Daryl could bring himself to touch Jesus, but that was okay. The softest of kisses on the other's forehead, a tender smile on either of their lips.

It was enough.


End file.
